


Her Choice

by Abbie



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Bronze Tiger - Freeform, Gen, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak - Freeform, gratuitous (mis)use of minor villain, heroic Felicity, non-manpain compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dire situation, Felicity makes a desperate move with grave consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from Tumblr. I have absolutely no excuse for this, and I apologize.

Oliver shook his head, trying to resolve the double vision into something he could make sense of again. He struggled to his knees, biting back a groan; hitting the wall had probably bruised, maybe broken, some ribs, but there was no time for pain. He could hear the man who called himself Bronze Tiger, China White’s claw-handed flunky’s footsteps moving towards him across the warehouse floor.

Across the room, Quentin Lance was screaming obscenities at the Triad mercenary, trying to distract him and buy Oliver—buy the Arrow—time to recover. A glance confirmed Lance was still pinned under the fallen stack of boxes he’d been tossed into, and their enemy was ignoring him, dismissing him as a non-threat.

The same glance noted a flash of bright blue shirt and blonde hair, shining under the moonlight pouring through the broken windows high in the wall, just around the corner of the overturned forklift, behind the Bronze Tiger, near Lance.

_Felicity_.

Oliver sucked in a breath and immediately looked away, locking his eyes on the slowly-approaching mercenary, keeping Felicity in his peripheral vision. What the hell was she doing? He’d told her to leave.

Oliver tried to struggle to his feet, biting back a sharp cry that took him back down to one knee. Yep; definitely a couple of broken ribs.

Bronze Tiger chuckled darkly, cracking the knuckles of one hand slowly, deliberately, the thin light gleaming on the blades at his knuckles. “I am really, really going to enjoy this, Arrow. Maybe I’ll mount your hood on my wall.”

Oliver reached past the pain and over his shoulder to pull an arrow from his quiver, gripping the shaft tightly in his fist. His bow may be shattered across the room, but he wasn’t helpless yet; and if he _was_ beaten here, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Suddenly, Felicity broke from her cover, pausing in her run to stoop and scoop something from the ground—Lance’s gun. Oliver’s attention zoomed in on her entirely, his mouth opening to scream a warning, an order, anything, but was drowned out by her loud, angry voice calling, “Hey!”

The Bronze Tiger spun around to face her, his expression mired in confusion and surprise at this tiny, brightly colored woman rushing at him. That expression narrowed to malicious determination when she raised the gun, and Oliver thought she would stop to aim, but she just kept moving, and Bronze Tiger was closing the distance between them—

and then the mercenary was on her, and the gun went off in a deafening boom that echoed through the high, empty space.

“ _Felicity!_ " Oliver surged to his feet, weight braced on the arrow in his hand, letting his momentum carry him several steps closer. What he saw froze him in his tracks.

Bronze Tiger stood close in front of Felicity, too close—and there was a large, bloody, pulpy hole in the middle of his back, gore and viscera sprayed out in a wide arc on the floor behind him.

After an unbearably silent moment, the dying man fell to his knees, revealing Felicity, face pale and eyes wide, looking down at the man she had killed—and then her eyes dropped, and Oliver stepped closer, following her gaze, to Bronze Tiger’s fist against her abdomen, knuckles angled up. “Oh,” she breathed.

_"No!"_ Oliver screamed, the word torn from his throat, and Bronze Tiger’s body slumped to one side, Felicity staggering as the dead weight pulled the clawed blades free of her stomach.

The gun clattered to the ground, her hands pressing to the wound as she stumbled backwards, bright red blood pouring through her fingers, spreading a dark stain across the front of her vibrant blue dress. She looked up from the mess, face a mask of shock, and her eyes met Oliver’s.

He ran the short paces between them, boots almost slipping on the Bronze Tiger’s blood, and drew up short in front of her, catching her under the elbows just as her knees buckled. He bore her extra weight to the floor, kneeling before her as she sat, wavering upright. He took one hand from her elbow and pressed it hard against hers, against the jagged tears in her dress and flesh. Terror rose wildly up in him at the slick, hot feeling of her blood pumping under his gloved hand, too much, too fast. Did the blades reach her heart? No, no, please no.

A crashing of wood and a loud groan snapped his attention over to Lance, who had dragged himself free of the weight of the boxes. “Call an ambulance!” he barked, eyes already sliding back to Felicity’s face.

"Oliver," his name bubbled to her lips with a stain of red, and he feared that, whether the claws had hit her heart or not, they may have nicked a lung. She pulled one hand from beneath his, and he frantically pressed harder even as her fingers, wet and bloody, brushed his cheek. "Oliver, listen to me."

"I’m listening, Felicity," he replied fiercely. "I’m listening." And he was. To the horrifying wet rasp in her voice, to the bubbling sound of her breathing.

Her fingernails dug into his jaw and he brought his eyes to hers. So blue, full of steel, even now. “My choice, understand? _My_ choice. Not your fault.” She gasped, coughed, a slip of blood spilling from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t be stupid. Not your guilt to carry. Need—need you to keep going, stop them.”

"Felicity…" He couldn’t promise this. Couldn’t acknowledge the ambulance would never get here in time, couldn’t promise not to lose his grip on the chunk of his soul she’d come to inhabit—such a larger chunk than he’d been willing to admit, than he’d even realized. She was drowning right in front of him, and once again he could do nothing, nothing.

She began to slump, and the hand at her elbow went to her back, arm banding behind her in support, pulling her closer. She leaned a shoulder against his side, and he whispered, “I’m sorry, Felicity, _I’m sorry_.”

She made a burbling sound he realized was supposed to be a chuckle, more blood in her mouth. “Typical Oliver. …It’s my death, it’s not about you.” A sob tore through him, involuntary, to hear her say the word. She looked up into his face, her hand dropping from his cheek to rest of his shoulder, fingers lightly stroking his neck under his hood. “You know, right? You know how I feel.”

He wanted to cup her face, or her hand to his neck, but he couldn’t break the press of his fingers against her wound, couldn’t give up the hope he could force her life not to leave her, force her not to go, not to leave him here, not now, not ever. He settled for dropping his forehead to hers. his voice in response a rough, pained whisper. “I know, Felicity. I know. I—”

"Don’t," she gasped. "Don’t just say it because I’m dying."

He sucked in a fast, desperate breath, bringing his lips to her skin, pressing a hard kiss to her hairline. “I’m not, Felicity, I’m not.” He looked down at her again to see her smiling at him, unsure and unhappy but still so soft and sweet and so much more than he had ever deserved. “Don’t go.” The plea broke out of him uncontrolled, and her smile turned sad.

"Sorry. Tell Digg I love him. That I’m sorry." Tears beaded her lashes, slipped down her cheeks. "I’m so sorry, Oliver." She coughed again, wet and red, and her fingers clenched in the leather of his tunic, her face locking down to determination again. "Remember why I loved you. Remember what I believed you could—you could be. What you will be. Give yourself time to get there."

He searched for words to say, anything, but Lance broke in, landing on his knees beside them.

"Shit," he swore, eyes sweeping over her, horror and heartbreak and grim defeat all over his cragged, tired face. "The ambulance is still probably about five, ten minutes out." He raised his eyes to Oliver’s, and Oliver dimly realized he hadn’t used his voice modulator since Felicity ran out from behind the forklift, that this close, the hood and paint were no disguise. He didn’t care. "She’s not gonna make it, Queen. I’m sorry."

Oliver’s brows drew together angrily, not willing to hear the hopeless words, but Felicity’s hand left his chest and reached for Lance, who, startled, caught it in his own, his expression flickering to desolation before schooling into calm.

"Detective," Felicity rasped, voice weak and almost drowned. "Take care of him… for me. Please." Her fingers tightened around Quentin’s larger ones until he swallowed, nodded. Felicity smiled up at him. "Good. Think… close my eyes…"

And then she was gone.


End file.
